


Mr. Campion's War

by SpaceTimeConundrum



Series: The Werewolf of Bottle Street [5]
Category: Albert Campion - Margery Allingham
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, F/M, Spoilers: Traitor's Purse, Werewolves, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7465518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceTimeConundrum/pseuds/SpaceTimeConundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War has come to England, and with it, a whole host of new challenges for investigator-turned-werewolf Albert Campion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Quayside Fight

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies and eternal gratitude to the marvellous Margery Allingham - readers beware, this adventure borrows rather heavily from the plot of _Traitor's Purse_.

_Tuesday, 13 February 1940_

There were maybe five or six of them in the gang. He’d counted as they'd pressed their way through the restless crowd, expressions cold and dangerous, intent. All familiar faces, all wielding coshes, which was something. Razors would've made an already ugly situation even bloodier than it promised to become. They were being cautious.

As the quayside meeting erupted into chaos around him, Albert Campion grinned in spite of himself. At long last, they'd caught hold of the thread that had been eluding them for so long. This was the break in the case they so desperately needed. At his side, his friend and co-conspirator Deputy Commissioner Oates' reaction was decidedly less enthusiastic. Scowling, the Scotland Yard man promptly laid out the first over-confident thug to approach him with a practised boxing manoeuvrer as the fighting began in earnest. 

Both men were experienced brawlers, by necessity of their chosen professions, but Mr. Campion had the advantage of being both younger and substantially more powerful. Though he scarcely looked it, the lanky investigator was capable of remarkable physical feats. An unlucky encounter with a particularly unpleasant old woman early in his career had irrevocably altered his fundamental constitution. The curse, meant as punishment for the dubious crime of youthful impertinence, upon reflection perhaps deserved, had also conferred a few unintended benefits. Years of subsequent practice had since honed both his natural and unnatural gifts, making him a formidable foe in a fight.

Unfortunately, even aided by Campion's remarkable talents, the pair were still far outnumbered on the quay. They were losing ground. Battling resolutely in the crowded passages between warehouses along the filthy waterfront, the crush of bodies eventually forced them into a corner, where an impenetrable wall of shipping crates prevented their escape. There, the mob descended upon them en mass, a spiteful glee for violence guiding their fists in the twilight gloom.

Mid-grapple, Mr. Campion's irrepressible grin returned. The shrill sound of distant police whistles pierced the air. Their noisy little gathering hadn't gone unnoticed after all. Help, if one could properly define it as such, was on the way.

There was only one small problem.

Dressed as they were, their mission undertaken with the utmost wartime secrecy, the police would have no way of guessing his or Oates' true identities, nor indeed much hope of distinguishing them as allies in the midst of the fray even if they had known. They'd simply have to keep their wits about them and pray the old boys felt up to listening to explanations if they were caught. Headquarters would vouch for them, of course, but things were bound to be a bit awkward with the local constabulary since they'd not been let in on the game from the start.

The fight continued at its sensational pace uninterrupted by this signal however. The gangsters were far too focused on their pugilistic agenda to heed its warning and disperse.

In their crowded corner, Campion and Oates still held their own against the gang in spite of the disadvantage of their numbers. 

Standing back to back as they were made it all but impossible for their enemies to land an unanticipated blow against either man and Campion's indefatigable nature and lightning quick reflexes had easily kept the worst of their opponents' onslaughts at arm's length. Realising this, their foes set about attempting to isolate the younger man from his partner.

Distracted by a sudden simultaneous assault on his left and right sides, Campion deflected one strike and turned swiftly to face the next, only to be caught unaware by a tremendous blow to the base of his skull from behind. It made a sickening crunch which sent an electric jolt down his spine and his whole world went incandescent in an instant. Knees buckling, he fell to the ground with dreadful finality.

The owner of the cudgel was a professional, swift and practised at his craft. Had Campion been an ordinary man, that might have been the end of him then. Thankfully, he was not.

Laying stunned on the damp paving-stones, the shock of the blow dulled his senses for the few vital seconds it took him to remember how to breathe again, but soon the steadily increasing agony in his head became overwhelming. Time seemed to stretch endlessly for him in that moment. He was already healing, but not quickly enough. 

Denied the merciful release of unconsciousness by his supernatural abilities, his shuttered mind instinctively sought the only refuge still available to him.

The fighting had already brought his other half to the fore, as violence usually did. It burned within his breast like a candle flame, glowing brighter the nearer he came to setting it free, every heartbeat calling to him to release it. 

This close to the edge, he could feel it as a low frequency thrum in his bones; colours were more vibrant, scents sharper, his reflexes swifter. Mentally, it was a bit like living with another voice in his head, not quite his own, shadowing his every thought. With time, he’d learned to use its constant presence to his advantage, to borrow strength from the wolf while suppressing the urge to lose himself to it entirely, but it could still be a delicate balancing act.

In this instance, the severity of his injury tipped the scales against him. To the wolf, pain meant danger, and danger was best faced with four legs, not two. Animal instincts overrode human rationality and something primal surged within Campion, triggering a transformation that in his condition he was powerless to resist.

The Change came upon him more swiftly than usual, his agitated state hastening the process. Skin stretched as bones shifted, teeth becoming longer and sharper and more canine as his jaw elongated. Hands grew claws, then became heavy paws. Thick tawny grey and cream coloured fur swept over his body like a rippling wave, covering him from nose to newly-formed tail in mere seconds.

He endured this ordeal silently, knowing that it would hurt more if he fought it. When it was finished, there was a momentary struggle, as the now wolf-shaped creature ripped free of his tattered human clothes, but soon he emerged, snarling at his startled attackers.

During his incapacitation the mob had advanced upon Oates, hardly expecting Campion to revive any time soon, and had been in danger of overpowering the old policeman before his unexpected transformation seized their attentions. Now they stared at the resulting creature in open amazement. No one moved. Only the gentle lapping of muddy water against the aged stone embankment nearby could be heard in the sudden silence that fell over the scene.

The enormous canine eyed the men coldly from his corner; a low, steady growl emanating from deep within his throat. Hackles raised, he assessed each one in turn, using his keen nose to identify which had dealt the skull-shattering blow to his head. There, on the left. The man in the torn green waistcoat, carrying what looked to be a lead pipe wrapped with cloth tape, he smelt of Campion’s own blood.

A sudden, intense fury rose up within the wolf at the sight of him, a reaction more human in origin than he'd later care to admit. He bared his teeth and charged at the man.

His target shrieked in terror, throwing up his hands to protect his face and stumbled over backwards as the wolf quickly closed the distance between them. The men standing beside him scattered, tripping over themselves to get away.

When Campion changed, his thoughts became more wolf than human. This had its benefits but also unfortunately had the effect of making him brutally indifferent to certain moral dilemmas. The wolf felt no more compunctions about taking a human life than it might a rabbit or a badger, should the human being in question pose a sufficient danger to himself. Right and wrong were simply superfluous considerations.

This inherent lupine pragmatism didn’t excuse him from the responsibility to control himself though. If anything, he felt the ease with which he could inflict harm on others created an additional duty to refrain from doing so. 

As a gentleman of the principled type, Albert Campion held himself to a very definite, albeit unconventional, code of ethics. While his views on morality might not always align precisely with what the law deemed permissible, the two were in perfect accord on the matter of killing - avoid if at all possible. Adhering to this prohibition was of paramount importance to him given his dual nature. He refused to allow himself to become the ravening beast that the legends always named his kind. He was a man, not a monster. 

That human inhibition was the only thing that kept him from tearing out his assailant’s throat as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Instead, he targeted his enemy’s right arm, biting down hard enough to snap the bones in his wrist. After what this man had done to him, the wolf was in no mood to show much mercy. He was simply a threat to be eliminated.

The man howled in agony, thrashing and fighting to get away. Campion sunk his teeth in deeper and gave the man a violent shake to quiet him. He yelped and went suddenly limp beneath him. The powerful odour of fresh urine rose up from the man’s trousers. The wolf released his arm with a disgusted snort.

Still looming menacingly over his captive, the wolf's piercing golden eyes sized the man up carefully. 

Reduced to a whimpering wretch cradling his shattered arm against his chest, his erstwhile assailant made a pretty pathetic picture. The man's co-conspirators had fled without a single backward glance, leaving him to face the beast alone. It spoke to the elemental terror that the figure of the wolf still inspired in humanity's primitive hindbrain that men so used to violence should succumb to cowardice so easily when faced with one in the flesh. Something like pity for this sorry creature trickled up from his buried human consciousness, dissipating much of his anger.

The wolf held his position for a moment longer, then stepped back gingerly to adopt a watchful pose at a slightly less intimidating distance.

The man on the ground took this retreat as his invitation to leave, hastily pushing himself upright with his one good arm and shifting his shaking legs to stand, prompting the wolf to snarl and snap his jaws at him, communicating his desire that he should lie still. He immediately abandoned his feeble escape attempt and began rocking gently in place, eyes wide and fearful.

Campion likely would have remained there until the police arrived to take the man into custody, had a muffled gasp to his left not caught his attention.

He turned his head to spy a lean, shabby figure standing alone amidst the scattered rubbish and debris, wearing what could only be described as an expression of pure horror on his lined grey face. After a tense moment of uncertainty, he recognised the familiar scent of his friend Stanislaus and was at once very glad to see him. His friend's obvious distress puzzled the wolf until he recalled distantly that Oates had never seen him in this form and thus might not know him now. This realisation sent a tremor of apprehension down his spine for some reason, but the feeling was too inchoate to cause more than a nagging sense of unease, so he dismissed it.

Wary of making any sudden gesture with the wolf watching him, Oates held perfectly still, his eyes alone moving from the impressive creature before him to the pile of shredded garments on the ground where Albert Campion had just been lying and back again. He swallowed heavily, his well-trained policeman’s mind kicking at the inescapable conclusion the evidence provided him with.

He’d just witnessed a man he’d known for more than fifteen years turn into an animal before his very eyes. Over a long and storied career, Stanislaus Oates had seen a great many fantastic things, but never anything which he'd have described as genuinely impossible before. Surely the deepening shadows and staggering importance of this case had begun playing tricks with his mind. But if that were the case, where had the beast come from?

“Good lord," he murmured, more to himself than any particular deity, "Campion?” His trembling voice was scarcely louder than a whisper.

Recognising the name, the wolf bowed his head politely in reply and took a tentative step towards the older man, ears flat and posture as non-threatening as he could make it. Nevertheless, his friend looked alarmed and flinched back, his shoulders coming up sharply against the rough brick wall behind him. Whining softly, the wolf retreated, giving Oates more space, but not taking his eyes off of him.

Taking advantage of this momentary diversion, the man whose arm the wolf had broken scrambled to his feet clumsily and fled into the darkness unpursued. Campion watched him go impassively, resisting the instinctive urge to run after him, his concern for his old friend keeping him rooted in place.

While Campion's attention was divided, Oates allowed himself a hurried step forward to retrieve the cudgel that the thug had left behind. He held it out defensively in front of himself, as though it were a talisman for warding off evil spirits, his hands shaking. This experience had rattled him badly.

Disappointed, the wolf responded with a brief warning growl, which conveyed more clearly than words what would happen should Oates attempt to use the weapon and then sat primly, pointedly staring past him as though he had breached some unwritten rule of etiquette and embarrassed them both. His manner was so eerily like Campion the man as to be unmistakable to anyone who knew him well.

“Lumme,” the old policeman breathed, which for him was a monumental expression of feeling, and he lowered his arm.

Their unconventional conversation was not given the chance to progress beyond that singularly apt epithet, however.

Presently, they were interrupted by the clatter of feet on sticky paving stones and furious shouting which together heralded the return of the other participants of the now-disbanded quayside meeting. This motley group came bursting into the passage where Oates and Campion’s wolf were holding their stand-off, pursued by four policemen wielding heavy batons. The wolf's nose told him that these were the same men he'd scared away earlier, forced to retrace their steps to avoid arrest.

Campion growled, rising to block their path forward. The men stopped short when confronted with the large wolf once again, allowing the chasing constables time enough to catch up to them. Their stern official voices cut through the thick air, spurring the frozen men back to action.

“Halt, police!”

Faced with certain danger ahead and the authorities close behind, most of the men turned to meet the policemen. The rest stood paralysed with indecision, unwilling to risk taking their eyes off of the wolf.

In the ensuing scrum Oates was spotted and immediately set upon by two constables, who had mistaken him for one of the fleeing criminals as they rounded the corner. Campion, partially hidden from their view by several bodies and long shadows, went largely ignored at first.

The embattled deputy commissioner defended himself admirably, but it was apparent that he'd been exhausted by his previous encounters that evening. He was simply not a match for the two younger men on his own. Realising this, the wolf hurried toward him, forcing a path through the confusion only to hesitate just shy of his destination.

He stood poised to intervene just a few feet away, wanting to be certain of his next move before acting, his instinctive desire to protect his old friend at war with his reticence to inflict permanent injury. Some remnant of his human self urged extra caution here. These new uniformed men were different somehow and that distinction was important, if only he could remember why. Well intentioned though it may have been, this dilemma made Campion indecisive at precisely the wrong moment.

While he dithered, one of the uniformed men caught Oates' sleeve and managed to swing him round, preparing to force him to his knees. The older man struggled and stumbled against the constable and Campion made his decision then, leaping forward to collide bodily with the bobby holding him.

This had the opposite effect intended. His sudden reappearance in his field of view inadvertently caused the wary Oates to flinch back and into the descending path of the second constable’s baton. There was a ghastly muffled crack as the swing connected with his temple and with a strangled cry of surprise and pain, the older man crumpled to the ground. The scent of fresh blood blossomed anew in the damp evening air, harsh and metallic over the reek of rotting fish, brackish water, and stale petrol exhaust.

"Wot the 'ell..?!" The standing constable gaped at the wolf in confusion and then looked back down at the unconscious man now lying at his feet.

Campion stared at him in dismay. Leaving the man he'd knocked down to go check his friend's motionless form, he prodded his shoulder gently with his nose, hoping for a response. When there wasn't one, he whined and licked his face, tasting salt and blood, watching and listening intently for any sign that he hadn’t just witnessed Stanislaus' death. 

A few terrifying seconds later, he was able to spot the subtle rise and fall of his chest. If he strained his ears, he could just make out the faint thumping of his heart through the din. Oates was still alive.

For now.

Relief rapidly gave way to anger, clouding his judgement. Snarling, he advanced on the man who’d struck Oates. Because he'd held himself back, a human member of his pack had been badly injured. The wolf would not be making that mistake twice.

The constable recoiled, shouting to his companions for help. None of them came in time. He fell when the wolf struck him, all twelve stone of the creature's weight hurtling into his chest. His helmet thunked against the paving stones with a hollow sound and rolled away as he fought to keep the snapping great jaws away from his vulnerable belly and throat.

It was his collar that saved him in the end. The thick wool with brass buttons protected his throat from the wolf's teeth until rescue arrived in an unexpected form.

The unmistakable flat crack of a rifle penetrated through to Campion's rational sensibilities in a way that the constable's terrified screams had not. He jerked back from the man abruptly and fled, disappearing into the darkness.

The source of this timely disruption was a stern plainclothes man in a pale trench coat. He stood in the entrance to the passage accompanied by several additional uniformed policemen, the picture of civil authority incarnate come to restore order.

Those remaining on the quay who hadn't escaped while the constable was under attack surrendered quietly. A small team was then dispatched with the rifle to hunt down the "bloody great dog" that had savaged their colleague, but most of the remaining business was focused on seeing the wounded safely to hospital.

No one noticed the loping grey shadow following the ambulance.

–

Albert Campion's first thought upon waking was that he was very cold. Opening his eyes, he saw a patch of ink-black sky scattershot with pale pinpricks of starlight. He blinked, puzzled. The realisation that this wasn't where he ought to be came upon him gradually.

When the fog in his mind cleared sufficiently for bemusement to become alarm, he sat up to discover that he was lying naked within a thicket of prickly shrubbery. Sharp thorns scraped at his skin as he moved and the twisted branches around him did little to cut the icy wind. He shivered and pulled his knees to his chest for warmth. 

It was very dark. The full moon was still ten days off, he remembered.

He'd Changed, that much was obvious, but his head ached and he couldn't remember what had happened exactly. Something had gone wrong. The heavy, metallic taste of blood in his mouth was hardly unusual after a run in his other shape, but it worried him.

Marshalling his scattered thoughts, he began to piece together what he could recall of the previous seventy-two hours in the hope that retracing his steps might jog his more recent memories.

He'd been investigating something... following the money. Someone had been spreading counterfeit bank notes throughout southern England. That was worrying enough in itself, with the war on. Cracking good forgeries, they'd nearly gone undetected until a sharp-eyed banker had spotted the miniscule discrepancy in their watermark and raised the alarm. The trouble was, the work was far too clean for amateur crooks. Notes that good could only have come from the official printing houses of a foreign power.

Thousands of the bogus bills had cropped up in various industrial towns along the coast, but in each case the story was the same. No one knew where the money was coming from, or if they did, they weren't talking. 

Hoping for new leads, however minuscule, Scotland Yard had placed officers undercover in vagrant camps where some of the money had been seen, but the trail had all but gone cold until their man at Coachingford had been fished out of the estuary. The poor fellow's neck had been broken with a single blow. Tidy work, likely professional. That was when Stanislaus Oates had contacted Headquarters for permission to bring him in on the matter.

Oates had given it to him pretty hot then and if he was right, the situation was rather perilous - he suspected that they'd stumbled upon a major Enemy operation, aimed at undermining and destabilising the whole of the British economy. Serious stuff, it made his blood run cold to even imagine it.

The only real spot of hope in the theory was the problem of distribution. It's remarkably difficult to simply give away cash in any significant sums. Especially during wartime, your average law-abiding citizen is apt to treat any such spontaneous gift with suspicion rather than enthusiasm. Somehow convincing the public at large to take and then spend this fiscal poison would be absolutely necessary to cause the sort of inflationary crisis they feared. It would take a frightening bit of organisation and diabolical cleverness to pull off. More than the Enemy had, he hoped.

Still, even the suggestion of financial volatility at a crucial time like this could easily lead to a panic, which was why only he and Oates had been fully apprised of the facts and the investigation was being kept so hush hush. Damned dangerous decision, he'd thought, but he wasn't the man in charge.

Anyway, he'd agreed to go have a snoop around at least, so he'd sent Lugg on ahead to act as a scout and taken the train down to Coachingford on Sunday. Brilliant as always, Amanda had secured them both an invitation to stay with Lee Aubrey nearby at Bridge. Aubrey's superior manner had irked him when they'd met, Campion had never had much patience for self-styled genius types, but he was a useful acquaintance to have. As Principal of the Institute in Bridge, he knew everyone of influence in the area well and could effect any necessary introductions. He'd ended up spending half a day at Bridge making arrangements and then slipped off to Coachingford to get the lie of the land.

An unsatisfying couple days mucking about in search of further information later, and there'd still been no concrete sign of the mysterious organisers of this scheme. They'd certainly been about though, if the buzz in the town's disreputable circles was anything to go on. Tales of blokes passing out handfuls of cash in back alleys and trading overstuffed envelopes over pints in public houses had whipped the local delinquent class into a frenzy of greed and anticipation.

Word on the street was that the sixteenth was to be the day when every citizen would be called upon to spend for his or her country and be provided generously with the means to do so. That date had certainly caught Campion's attention, since it coincided rather ominously with the planned public announcement of the Minute Fifteen Defence Loan. The plan wasn't widely known about yet, but he had it on uncomfortably good authority that if that measure failed, they'd all be in the soup. Suddenly Oates' predictions of doom and gloom didn't seem that far fetched.

With this new deadline looming, Campion had devised a more direct gambit. By advertising himself as an agent of their unknown distributor of spurious currency, he'd hoped to draw out the genuine servants of the same. Too anxious to wait by the telephone for news, Oates had come down from London to join him in this subterfuge. Dressed in their Sunday worst, they'd gone down to the quayside together round tea time to make their play.

It had worked, too. Well, they'd succeeded in drawing a crowd, at least. The money had seen to that. He and Stanislaus held court at the Coachingford wharf until the visiting criminal element they'd hoped to lure out had finally made themselves known. Quite an eclectic bunch they'd made. He'd recognised the Lily, Weaver B. the mechanic, Nervy Williams, and the Glasshouse Johns among them. All imported talent, with little history between them to suggest such an alliance was likely. That too was disquieting.

Then there'd been the fight and that's where things got a little hazy. Oates had been with him and... and... _oh_.

_Oh no._

Oates. He'd seen. Campion had lost control and Oates had seen him Change.


	2. Dilemma and Delay

It had been ten years last July since his life had been forever changed by that spiteful curse. Ten years of polite evasions, careful scheduling, and white lies to protect his secret. Ten years of constant vigilance and scrupulous self-discipline to hide the physical peculiarities that might give him away. And now he’d gone and lost his head in a street fight. He could have wept. He’d exposed himself utterly with a single mistake.

This was a calamity of the worst kind, come at the worst possible time. There might not be an England left to preserve, should his present mission fail. The great wheels were already in motion, any significant delay in his investigation now could easily prove disastrous. It was imperative that he stop this counterfeiting plot before it came to fruition, and yet at this singularly inopportune moment, he’d done something that had all but ensured his own imminent detention.

That men like himself existed was not entirely unknown in certain circles. Reports of sightings dating back centuries could be found in the official records if one studied them closely enough. It made for rather grim reading, history had not been kind to his sort. More recent accounts remained very much an open secret among those whose work put them in contact with such information. Incidents were quietly investigated, dutifully archived, and never spoken of again, as a rule. 

There’d been whispers out of Warsaw since the war had begun that the Nazis had been testing a secret regiment of supernaturally enhanced soldiers there. Men with sharp teeth, whose eyes glowed like embers in the night and could run for a full day without rest. Naturally, most who heard this dismissed these reports as superstition and hysteria, but there were enough who took the stories seriously to make Campion wary. Should his condition ever come to the attention of those quarters of His Majesty’s government, it would mean a permanent end to what little freedom he currently enjoyed. 

In his mind’s eye, Mr. Campion saw iron bars closing in around him and shuddered. He could well imagine the weeks of interrogations and scientific probings that would follow his swift imprisonment in the name of national defence, the painful tests of the limits of his endurance and abilities they'd dare not inflict on a normal man. At best, if he was cooperative, his countrymen might eventually decide he’d be of more use to the war effort as a soldier than a specimen, and send him to the front. Not a role he’d relish returning to, but it would be preferable to a prison laboratory.

He’d served briefly at the end of the last war, and the experience had rather soured him on the ugly business of soldiering. Barely more than eighteen, he’d come home with life and limbs intact, unlike so many of his peers, but nothing had been the same afterwards. When war in Europe had once again become an inevitability, he’d been secretly relieved for the opportunity to aid his country in a more intellectual capacity this time, never thinking it might come to this.

Campion considered his prospects grimly. The fatal thing was done. Nothing he could do to change that now. He had a few friends in high places, and distant family connections that he could call upon at last resort, but none whose influence was great enough to protect him in such unusual circumstances. Not with a war on.

There was time enough to disappear, if he wanted. Assume another name and walk away. But as tempting as that idea was, it would mean abandoning Britain to the Enemy in her time of need. This was his home and he'd sworn to defend it. He couldn't run. Which meant that his fate depended entirely on whether the one man capable of identifying him to the authorities as a public menace chose to do so.

Stanislaus was a friend, of course, but how much weight would that carry against what he’d seen with his own two eyes? To the modern, rationally trained mind, that a man might spontaneously transform his shape was a fantastic notion, the stuff of lurid tales one found in pulp magazines. To suddenly discover that such things occurred in reality must have been the shock of the century for the old boy, as it certainly had been for Campion himself when he’d found out.

To his credit, Oates hadn’t immediately run away, which argued there might still have been some hope of reasoning with him at that point, though Campion knew fear when he smelt it. Regrettably, they’d been interrupted before he could prove himself safe to the other man, and then he’d accidentally frightened him into the injury which had disabled him.

Campion groaned and dropped his head onto his knees. He’d disgraced himself again there, attacking the hapless policeman when it had been his own intervention responsible. It had all happened so quickly, the incident largely a blur in his memory. He hoped he hadn’t done the man any irreparable harm.

This sobering suggestion diverted his thoughts from his own difficulties. What had become of the men he'd injured on the quay? Of Oates? The old policeman had been alive when he’d last seen him, but his condition at the time had hardly been reassuring. While he wallowed in self pity and worried for his future, his friend could be fighting for his life.

There’d been an ambulance, he thought. He had a faint recollection of following one at least. Which meant they’d taken him to hospital most likely. That was good, best place for him really. The doctors and nurses there would look after him until he recovered. Assuming he would recover.

Campion shook himself. His most pressing concern at the moment ought to be figuring out where he was. He could face the rest later. Rising unsteadily into an awkward crouch, he peered out of the unpleasant shrubbery cautiously.

A grey, four storey edifice overlooking a sparsely-occupied car park loomed in the foreground. Compliance with the blackout restrictions meant the building’s many long, rectangular windows were dark, but his superior night vision allowed him to read the sign posted above its rear entrance. _St Jude’s Hospital_. In the distance, he could just make out the indistinct shapes of sloped roofs and spires of civilisation silhouetted against the sky. To his immense relief, it appeared he was still in Coachingford.

The night was unnaturally quiet and seemingly growing colder by the minute. Other than the handful of parked vehicles waiting for their drivers in the dark lot, there was little evidence of life about. Eyeing the distance to the entrance, he wondered if he might risk slipping inside the building to find a telephone.

He’d asked Amanda to meet him at the station in town at four, but that must have been hours ago now. The business at the quay had taken longer to arrange than he’d anticipated. It must’ve been nearly six by the time things finally started heating up. She must have worried when he missed their rendezvous, perhaps even gone looking for him. He’d have to try ringing the paper shop and hope Lugg could come fetch him discreetly. As understanding as his fiancée was generally, he didn’t particularly want to have to explain himself to her in his present state.

Extricating himself from his prickly hiding place took some manoeuvring and left rapidly healing scrapes stinging across nearly every inch of his exposed flesh. Limping slightly, he dashed across the silent car park to crouch beside an ambulance, where he paused to pluck several needle-sharp thorns from his hands and feet before proceeding on.

A stroke of luck – the driver’s door to the ambulance had been left unsecured – garnered him a clean rescue blanket to use as a cloak. He wrapped himself in it gratefully, glad to have something to shield himself from the night air. His nakedness thus concealed beneath this modest costume, he approached the building with trepidation. Trying the door, he was gratified to discover that it was also unlocked and unguarded.

Inside, the hospital was quiet and comfortingly linoleumed. Heavily shaded lamps cast isolated pools of light along an empty corridor lined with white doors. If he listened carefully, he could hear the indistinct murmur of hushed conversation drifting from somewhere in the building, but saw no one.

Mr. Campion had never been very fond of hospitals, though he had nothing but respect for their purpose. To his overly sensitive nose, they always stank of disinfectant, stale blood, illness, and the grim odour of human misery, which made them rather unsettling to visit. There was little of that here though, the place seemed practically abandoned, its faded green walls and polished floors smelt scrubbed clean.

Treading lightly to avoid detection and unwelcome questioning, he wandered, opening promising doors until he located a closet with useful contents.

Slipping into the rough hospital pyjamas he’d found stored there, he felt a little better. The feeling had begun to return to his frozen limbs. He scrubbed at his face and hands with the blanket to make himself more presentable, then went looking for a telephone.

The desire for stealth slowed his search, but his excessive caution was rewarded when he paused to listen at a door and heard a voice on the other side speak so near to his ear that he stepped back from it in surprise.

“He’ll be quiet enough, you’ll see,” the voice, male and friendly, was saying. “Probably won’t even remember what’s happened - or he’ll say he doesn’t until he’s seen a lawyer.”

A second voice murmured in reply to the first, too low for Campion to catch his words. He moved closer to press his ear against the wall.

“I shouldn’t be surprised," he heard the first man remark. "And don’t you forget, there’s still all that money to be accounted for. That’ll take a fair bit of explaining on its own. I’d like to be here when he wakes up jus’ to hear what he has to say on the subject m'self.”

The second man spoke again, what little carried of his question through the wall sounding almost apprehensive. "... have they found it yet?"

“No such thing,” the first replied, with weary tolerance. “Don’t you believe whatever superstitious tosh the lads at the station are speadin’ about. Some damned fool has the idea to bring ‘is Alsatian to a fight an’ afterwards everyone starts natterin’ on about bein’ chased by monsters in the dark. Absolute rubbish.”

"Tell that to Collins," he heard the other man mutter darkly.

"Watch yourself, Constable," his companion warned. His tone was noticeably more subdued though.

They were talking about himself, of course, Campion realised. Evidently his canine performance on the quay had not gone unreported. He listened at the door for a few minutes longer, hoping to hear more about the man they’d been discussing at first, but their conversation had moved on. Was Oates the unconscious man they were guarding? Or was it another of the men he’d encountered on the quay?

Moving quietly away, he chose another door off the corridor and soon found himself in an empty ward. There he finally spotted his objective - sitting at a nurses’ station situated at the end of a row of beds was a telephone. He hurried over to make use of it before anything else could go awry.

One terse and unnecessarily cryptic conversation later, he’d managed to convey his whereabouts to the proprietor of the paper shop. Old Happy expressed ignorance as to Lugg’s location, but promised to deliver the message when he returned. He kept his voice low to avoid being overheard by the policemen, inadvertently reinforcing the man’s romantic notion of taking part in a genuine cloak and dagger operation.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the line disconnected. Having succeeded in transmitting his oblique SOS, he needed only find some place safe to wait until Lugg arrived.

This optimism was short-lived.

As he replaced the telephone handset to its cradle, a young nurse appeared from around the corner behind him and let out a sharp exclamation of surprise. Distracted by his call, he hadn’t heard her approach and was startled as well.

Eminently aware of how suspect he must appear to her, he hastened to put her at ease. “Terribly sorry, I didn’t hear you come up,” he said, smiling idiotically. “This place is so frightfully empty at the moment, it makes one a bit jumpy.”

“Did you need assistance?” she asked him, recovering her wits quickly. As he’d hoped she might, she’d taken him for a wayward patient.

“Thank you, no. I should be getting back to my bed before I’m missed,” he said, moving away from the desk. “I only wanted to ring my wife, you see, to let her know that I’m all right. She was terribly worried.” He delivered the lie without hesitation, falling back upon the mask of earnest foolishness which had served him so well in his youth.

His explanation only made her frown deepen however. “Sir, this area is reserved for medical staff only. The public telephone is located downstairs in the lobby. If you need to place a call, please speak with the nurse assigned to your ward.”

He coloured disarmingly and made the appropriate mea culpa gesture. “Of course. Silly of me. I shall bear that in mind for next time, thank you.” Another careful step backward put him that much closer to the door.

She moved to block his escape route however. With Campion’s customary powers of obfuscation hampered by his dishevelled appearance, the nurse’s credulity was beginning to wane.

“Were you brought in tonight, did you say?” she asked, eyes narrowing as she noticed the twigs in his hair.

“Yes, earlier this evening. Car smash,” he supplied. “I, ah, I’m a little hazy on the details, afraid I’ve had a knock on the head.” He tapped his temple gingerly.

This last portion of his reply had the dubious benefit of being completely true and for a moment she looked as though she might believe him. Sensing an opportunity, he took a calculated risk.

“I seem to recall there was another fellow. Older chap, grey hair, longish face, about my height? He’d had it even worse than me. Positively down for the count, poor old boy. I say, I don’t suppose you could tell me how he’s doing?”

Asking after Oates proved a mistake. Her expression hardened immediately. “I’m afraid I don’t have that information. Perhaps you should enquire with the police. I believe they’re just in the next ward.” She gestured over her shoulder meaningfully, watching for his reaction.

Campion smiled again. Not his finest work, but she’d told him enough by her answer. Oates was here. Now it was time for him to leave. He had neither his identity card nor a plausible explanation for his whereabouts this evening. An encounter with the local police now would only mean more delay.

“That won’t be necessary. Thank you kindly for your help.”

He turned and walked briskly away, breaking into a run as soon as he was out of her sight. She shouted after him to stop.

Hurtling down the back stairs at a tremendous pace, he fled out into the darkness once more, desperate to find cover before she could rouse the cavalry to give chase. This meant another detour into unforgiving foliage, where he waited, crouched uncomfortably in a nest of brambles for several minutes until he was certain that he hadn’t been seen.

While he listened for pursuers, he weighed his options. He could either remain where he was until Lugg came, and hope that he would be able to intercept him without being seen, or attempt to navigate the town on his own. Mindful of the acute discomfort offered by his present position, he chose the latter.

Returning to the path cautiously, he set off toward civilisation in the freezing dark, cutting a meandering path through hedgerows and alleyways until he came upon a street he recognised. It was a slightly harrowing trek. At this late hour, dressed as he was, he was hardly inconspicuous as he hurried through the slumbering city. The lighting restrictions provided some cover, but every passing car sent him ducking round corners or behind post boxes.

The thin hospital pyjamas he wore quickly proved wholly inadequate for the weather. So long as he kept moving, it was just bearable, but his face had gone numb and his ears and lungs ached from the bitter cold. 

The journey might have been easier, and certainly faster, he reflected ruefully, had he the foresight to borrow a car. Though then he would’ve had the additional problem of disposing of it quietly without leading the police directly to himself. On the whole, perhaps it was best to have avoided that complication. Years of monthly moonlit explorations meant that he was not unaccustomed to running barefoot when necessary at least.

Eventually, he turned down the narrow alleyway which led to the empty stone courtyard behind his destination. He began to breathe a little easier.

Then, just as he entered the yard, a battered door opposite him swung open and a large, bald man in a bowler hat and indistinct dark clothes appeared in the doorway.

If the man was surprised to find Mr. Campion standing there in pyjamas, he didn’t show it. Instead, he scowled and stepped aside to let him come in out of the cold.

“Well now, look what th’ cat dragged in,” he rumbled. “You’re a sight. I was jus’ about to come collec’ you from horspital, but I see you’ve showed yerself ‘ome.” The man regarded him disapprovingly.

“Evening, Lugg,” Campion replied lightly, slipping past him into the dimly lit lounge. “Hospital rations simply weren’t to my taste, so I excused myself early. Thought I might save you the trouble of fetching me.”

“You’re a real gent, ain’t ya,” Lugg scoffed, coming back inside and closing the door behind them. “Makin’ jokes when I been out half the night on me own, lookin’ for ya.”

He doffed his hat and gestured with it at Campion accusingly. “Whatever you been up to, it’s made one ‘ell of an impression on the local coppers. Every busy in this town’s on ‘igh alert, talkin’ ‘bout wild dogs run amok down by the water. I got stopped by ‘em three times whilst I was out there, peerin’ in bushes and whistlin’ for ya like a proper mug.”

Campion grimaced. “I’m sorry about that. Things got a little more heated than planned.”

Lugg raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “You don’t say.”

His employer glared at him from his position by the furnace grate. “Stanislaus Oates is presently lying unconscious in hospital, under police guard, and I’ve no idea of his prognosis,” he said brutally.

Lugg, who seldom had cause to feel kindly toward any policeman, nevertheless harboured a grudging sort of fondness for Mr. Oates. “Was it you that put 'im there?” he asked, somewhat pointedly.

“Not directly, no,” Campion replied, ignoring Lugg’s dubious look. The suggestion that he might’ve hurt one of his friends agitated him, most especially because his conscience felt the criticism was well-deserved. “The old boy caught a policeman’s baton above the ear,” he explained.

“We’ve another problem just now however,” he continued hurriedly, before Lugg could interrupt to ask another question, “Oates saw me Change.”

That news struck home. “Lumme, he… 'ow’d 'e take it then?”

“I’m not sure.” Campion passed a hand over his dishevelled hair wearily. “It scared him badly, I think. We won’t know until he wakes how he’ll react, but I can’t get in to see him at the moment.”

“Wot eggsactly 'appened out there?”

Mr. Campion provided him with an abbreviated explanation of the evening’s events as he recalled them, ending with his clumsy escape from St. Jude’s.

“Anybody follow you ‘ere?” Lugg asked when he was finished.

“I shouldn’t think so. The streets were fairly empty. I’d have noticed a tail. No, I think we’re safe enough on that front.”

Lugg’s expression turned thoughtful. “What about th’ others that saw yer little party trick? Think any of them can identify you?

Campion shook his head. “Not likely. It was dark and I’d disguised myself well enough. The police will be looking for me though, I expect. The nurse I spoke with will certainly have given them a description by now. She saw my face, plain as day.”

“’Course she did. Well, wot’s the ruddy plan then?”

“I don’t know. Give me moment.” Campion began to pace the room, thinking.

There’d been several faces he’d recognised in the quayside crowd, but none of those men had been the sort intelligent enough to have engineered this scheme on their own, nor did he recall any of them having political leanings. Which meant there was likely another party at the helm somewhere, keeping their profile low.

He really ought to go to the authorities with what he’d discovered immediately, personal consequences be damned, but was understandably reluctant to do so. There were still too many pieces of this terrifying puzzle that eluded him. Exposing part of the criminal ring now, before he’d identified the real mastermind, might give his quarry the opportunity to escape.

“Must you pace like that?” Lugg complained, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s like watchin’ an animal at th’ zoo waitin’ to be out of its cage.”

“I can’t just hand m’self over to the police tonight,” Campion said aloud, ignoring him. “After that hullabaloo by the river, they’re liable to have me arrested on the spot before I can explain myself. It might take half a day to sort out the misunderstanding, and by then I don't know where we'll be." He frowned.

"I simply haven’t got enough information to be certain of stopping this infernal business in time. Half a dozen names and bad feeling do not a thorough investigation make. I've caught a glimpse of the machine, nothing more." He spoke with deliberate vagueness. There were still some details regarding his mission that he wasn't at liberty to disclose, even now.

"I'll have a quiet word in the ear of the county CID man in the morning, see if I can't put him on the scent discreetly. I'd like to avoid setting the hare running if I can."

Lugg rubbed his neck wearily. "An' the rest of it? What're you gorna do about Oates? If 'e wakes up..."

“Where are my clothes?” Campion asked suddenly, looking around the room.

“Amanda 'as 'em, took the case while I was out,” Lugg rumbled, not fooled by the abrupt change of subject.

"Where is she now? I need her to bring them back if I'm to make myself presentable again."

“Do I look like a ruddy psychic? Back at Bridge, I expec'. It's gone eleven already. An 'ow are you plannin’ on explainin’ this to 'er?”

Campion looked uncomfortable. “I haven’t got that far yet. I’ll think of something.”

“Should tell 'er the truth. You’re marryin’ 'er nex' month. Tell the lass and she’ll 'elp. She’s got to know sooner or later.”

"I'll tell her when the time's right," he said defensively.

Lugg shook his enormous head. "An' what sorta time is this then? You numpty. Tell 'er before Oates does it for ya. D'you really want 'er to find out from someone else?"

Mr. Campion didn't have an answer for him.

"She’s not gorna panic. If I know 'er, she'll only wonder why you didn't come out with it sooner."

"You can't know that," he replied weakly. "Besides, how can I tell her? I can't simply say 'I'm terribly sorry for missing our appointment this afternoon, my dear. I was unavoidably detained by my chronic lycanthropy.' She'll think I'm demented!"

Lugg huffed. "Now yer jus' bein' difficult. You're a clever chap, you'll think of somethin', like you said. Don't, an' you risk losin' 'er when she finds out some other way. Wimmen folk don't much like bein' lied to. ‘Specially when it’s summat important."

"That's enough," Campion snapped, suddenly realising that the conversation had become far more personal than he liked. "What I say to Amanda is my own concern, not yours. When I want your opinion on my private life, I'll ask for it," he said, the rebuke sounding a trifle harsher than he’d intended, but he was feeling irritable and made no effort to soften it.

He crossed the room, heading toward a second, interior door. "I'm going to ring the Institute now. Not a word of this to Amanda when she gets here."

Aubrey's butler answered the telephone and, given the hour, was understandably reluctant to fetch Lady Amanda for him until he'd impressed upon the man that it was a matter of some urgency.

After some delay, Amanda's clear, young voice came over the line. "Albert! Where are you? Are you all right?" She sounded awfully worried and he mentally kicked himself for putting off calling her for as long as he had.

"Yes, I'm all right," he assured her. "I'm sorry I missed you earlier, I was delayed unexpectedly in town. Do you think you could come into Coachingford now? I'm with our mutual friend."

Amanda hesitated. "It’s a bit awkward. We’ve made rather a poor showing as house guests thus far. Lee's sure to start asking delicate questions if I go haring off at this hour."

He bristled slightly at the mention of their host. There were more important matters at stake just now. "Can't you put him off? You have my case. I'm not dressed for a taxi."

"Oh! I'm sorry, I forgot about that. I had Mr. Anscombe with me and we were already so unforgivably late for dinner…" There was a pause. "I'll see what I can do. Be there as soon as I can." She rang off.

Campion returned the telephone to its shelf beneath the shop counter with a thankful nod to Old Happy, sitting in the corner with his pipe, and went back to the room at the rear of the shop.

In his absence, Lugg had relocated himself to a wooden stool and was busy laying out sheets of newsprint on the table in the centre of the room. Beside him on a broken chair lay two revolvers atop a handful of clean rags and an oil canister.

“I got through to Amanda. She’ll be along directly,” Campion announced.

Lugg grunted in acknowledgement without looking up from his task, carefully unloading and placing the open guns on the table to be cleaned.

"There's stew on the hob if you're 'ungry," he said. "Don' eat it all. I 'aven't 'ad my supper yet either."

Campion accepted the offering wordlessly, going to fix himself a bowl and gulping down the food with self-conscious dignity. The cold had distracted him from the fierce hunger that always followed his shape shifting, but once he was safely indoors, it gnawed at him painfully. The meal blunted the sharp pinching of his stomach and he felt distinctly more human again.

When he was finished, he stepped out to go to the washroom to clean up. Lacking a comb or toothbrush, he did his best with a flannel and powdered soap. He returned damp, but considerably cleaner, skin scrubbed slightly raw, and sat down across from Lugg to contemplate his next moves.

Not that he’d ever admit as much, but there’d been a lot of sense in what his old friend had said. Amanda really ought to hear the truth from him, not someone else. Of course, the business of actually revealing his secret wasn’t as simple as Lugg made it sound. If it were, he’d have told her about himself ages ago. 

He'd lost the luxury of time, however. With Oates unconscious in police custody, it might only be a matter of hours until his friend woke and the careful house of cards he’d built fell apart around him. It had to be tonight.

Some minutes later, there was a soft knock at the interior door and Amanda came in carrying a suitcase, her cheeks flushed bright pink from the night air. She wore a sleek white evening gown beneath her practical overcoat and her startlingly red hair hung loose and wild about her shoulders.

"Hello, Orph. Hello, Lugg," she greeted them breathlessly. "I came as quickly as I could. Lee kept insisting that he ought to accompany me. I had to assure him that I was perfectly capable of driving into town on my own at night, even if there is a war on."

She paused in removing her coat and looked at Campion more closely. "I say, I know you said you weren't fit for a taxi, but what _have_ you got on?”

“Pyjamas,” he answered, “hospital issue, not my own, thankfully. Bit of a mix up in town, like I said.”

“Oh Albert, you didn’t say you’d been hurt," she said, looking concerned. “If I’d known…”

“I’m all right,” he said quickly. “I only got knocked out. No permanent harm done.” He smiled foolishly at her.

"Well, if you're sure,” she said, frowning slightly. “You'd better dress quickly then, I promised I wouldn't be gone long."

He took the case from her and disappeared into the next room to change.

When the door closed behind him, she looked over at Lugg appealingly. “How is he really, Magers?”

Lugg shrugged. “'S not fer me to say. Ask ‘im yerself when you get ‘im alone,” he said cryptically.

“That bad?” She sighed and sat down, resting her chin on her hands.

Mr. Campion returned to find the two of them chatting amiably over Lugg’s martial preparations. He looked himself once again in a sombre brown suit and the overlarge round spectacles which had become his most recognisable feature over the years.

“Shall we go?” he asked, producing a fedora from his case.

Amanda stood and smoothed her dress with her hands. “Yes, we need to be getting back straight away. It’s terribly late.”

Helping her with her overcoat, Campion glanced back at Lugg. “Keep a weather eye open. I’ll ring if anything develops,” he said.

Lugg grunted. “Watch out fer yerself, cock.” He nodded toward Amanda’s turned back and mouthed the words ‘tell her’ silently as they moved to the door.

Instinctively, Campion made a swift gesture with his hand, a long-standing signal between them to drop a matter instantly. He half-regretted the motion as soon as he’d made it though, knowing his friend would take the instruction poorly.

Looking faintly hurt, Lugg glowered, but didn’t attempt to argue with him further as they left.

Together, Campion and Amanda went out to the waiting car. Amanda drove, arguing that, protestations of perfect health aside, she wasn't about to let him behind the wheel until he'd had a proper night's rest.

Once they were safely on the road toward Bridge, she looked over at him and asked the question that had surely been burning in her mind all evening. "What happened?”

“Caught hold of a thread,” he answered vaguely. “Got the wrong end of it when I pulled to see where it led. Didn’t even see the chap that hit me until I’d given him my best impersonation of a falling tree. I’m told it was most convincing.”

She shook her head at his feeble joke. “I waited at the station like we'd arranged for over an hour. When you didn’t arrive, I tried calling in at the paper shop to see if you’d left a message. There was such a crush inside, I could scarcely get more than a word or two out of the man behind the counter. Eventually I worked out that there'd been some sort of trouble and he was trying to tell me to check at the hospital, but I never dreamed you might’ve gone as a patient. 

"When I got there, the woman at the desk couldn’t tell me anything, and I had Mr. Anscombe waiting in the car, so I couldn’t hang about. We must’ve just missed one another."

“How did you wind up ferrying old Anscombe about?” Campion asked, aware that he was putting off his own, rather more important, explanations.

“He came round after breakfast this morning and must’ve heard that I was coming into Coachingford today. He had an appointment to see the dentist in town and wondered if I might take him. Lee made the request on his behalf, so I could hardly refuse without sounding jolly suspicious,” she replied, biting her lip.

"He's a terrifying old boy. Flat mental deficiency ninety-nine percent of the time with these startling flashes of coherence now and then that keep you guessing. You're never quite sure if it’s silver shining through the tarnish or the last flecks of plate on the old tin spoon.

“I put off fetching him for as long as I could, but I couldn't just leave him waiting all evening. We were expected for dinner. So I told him there'd been an accident on the platform and that you'd taken the poor man to hospital. That didn't seem to faze him in the slightest, he just kept nattering on about the latest news from the front and making queer little comments about the time.

“He had enough sense to ask questions when I came back without you though. I said there'd been a mistake and it hadn't been you on the platform after all, just someone very like you, but he wouldn’t stop asking where you’d gone, like I'd spirited you away in some sort of parlour game and he was meant to guess. I had to take him back to Bridge then; it was getting late and I couldn’t keep inventing stories to shut him up.”

Robert Anscombe very probably knew something about this currency business, Campion reflected. Oates had been convinced of it, at least. Hearing Amanda's description of the man, he wondered. He’d have to get it out of the old man tomorrow, he decided, whatever it was Anscombe knew or didn’t know.

Amanda was still speaking. “…and then, after all that palaver, he didn’t come to dinner after all. And then Mr. Pyne rang with his apologies at the last minute as well. It made things rather awkward for Lee, having three empty place settings at the table. Especially after he'd put back the meal to eight-thirty for us."

"Ah." Campion was only half-listening to her, his mind preoccupied. 

Silently, he rehearsed his confession, imagining her reaction to his seemingly impossible claims. Confusion, disbelief, laughter? It was such an absurd tale to ask her to accept. Amanda’s unrelenting faith in him was one of her most remarkable and endearing qualities, but even she must have her limits.

In his anxiety, he found his thoughts returning again and again to the matter of proof. If he truly wanted to convince her, he'd have to show her. But a moving car was hardly the place for that sort of demonstration. Once begun, the Change was incredibly difficult to reverse, attempting to induce a partial transformation deliberately would be extraordinarily foolish. If he pushed himself too far, he'd lose control.

And even if he miraculously succeeded, he had no guarantee that it wouldn’t be too much for her to reconcile. His unexpected transformation had obviously terrified Oates, a man who’d spent some forty years with the Metropolitan Police and encountered all manner of horrors in his time. Similarly, Lugg’s first impulse after he’d seen his employer’s curse at work had been to find a revolver and the decanter, in that order. Even forewarned, she was bound to find the experience profoundly unsettling, if not wholly overwhelming.

He felt wretched and indignant that circumstances had led him to this choice. Noble self-sacrifice for one's country was all well and good in stories, but reality was far less romantic. Why should he risk spoiling what might be his last day as a free man by telling her his secret? 

But when else might he have the opportunity to speak with her alone before it was too late? If he didn't say something now, or he might never get the chance again.

“Amanda,” he said, “about tonight...”

“Yes?” She glanced over at him, and as their eyes met, it suddenly occurred to him just how terribly he would miss her if they locked him away. The intensity of this feeling surprised him.

He opened his mouth to tell her what had really happened on the quay and then closed it again wordlessly. He couldn’t do it. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, yet he couldn’t say them. 

"We’ll… want to have our stories straight,” he said, after an overlong pause. “If anyone asks, let’s say I got held up at my meeting in London and had to take the later train back."

“Good. That’s more or less what I told Lee already,” she replied, and smiled at him.

Campion sat quietly by her side, watching the retreating outlines of trees and houses through the passenger window, ashamed of his own cowardice. 

“I say, Albert…” 

He looked over at her. “Yes?”

“I…” she began, and hesitated, looking uncharacteristically unsure of herself. But before she could say anything more, the heavy iron gates of the Principal’s estate came into view, and she slowed the car to make the turning. “Never mind, it’ll keep until later.” 

Tyres crunching softly on the gravel, the car turned up the long, tree-lined drive towards the stately Georgian home. Amanda drove past several small outbuildings to park in the empty stableyard to the left of the main house.

“That’s odd,” she said as they pulled up. “I wonder who’s visiting at this hour.”

An unfamiliar black car sat in the yard next to their own. Steam rose lazily from its bonnet in the weak moonlight. Whomever it belonged to hadn’t been there long. A trickle of apprehension went down Campion’s spine at the sight of it.

They went round to the front of the house, passing between the elegant white columns of a wide portico and let themselves in, being careful to mind the blackout device on the door.

“Ah. Campion, Amanda. You’re back,” Lee Aubrey’s unmistakable baritone greeted them as they came in. He appeared in a pristine dinner jacket and beckoned them to join him in the study. They followed obediently from the hall.

A squarish police constable in an enormous wool great coat and a sharply dressed plainclothes officer stood awkwardly by the hearth, obviously waiting for them. 

Campion recognised the second man as Superintendent Hutch, the county CID man with whom he’d arranged to go over the town’s secrets. He’d forgotten their appointment was for later tonight, he realised with alarm.

He didn’t think that was why the man was here now, however.

“I’m afraid I have some rather unpleasant news,” Aubrey murmured at his side, as if taking them both into his confidence. 

“These two gentlemen have come about Robert Anscombe, it seems the poor old boy has just been found dead in his garden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been more than a year. Not abandoned, just slow going on the writing front. Hit subscribe and be pleasantly surprised when I eventually update. Feel free to leave a comment if you're so inclined. Thank you for reading!


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